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At 30, Klaus knew that being sober meant being haunted by souls that refused to move on. Out of spite, out of vengeance. At 30, Klaus knew that being sober meant dreams. Meant nightmares. Meant watching his siblings suffer. Meant being just as useless as he was in reality. Ghosts, he could deal with. He had dealt with them his whole life. But watching his siblings, that was too much.Luther, melting in front of Klaus’s eyes, begging- crying- pleading for Klaus to help him.Diego, with knives skinning him alive. Screaming for help.Allison, his beautiful sister, clawing at her throat with razor-sharp claws, mouth opened in terrible, distorted screams.Five, the youngest in his mind. Forever thirteen. Forever locked in a glass box, beating with all his strength, screaming for help.Ben. Ben was the most painful. Because the nightmare was never just a nightmare, it was always Klaus’s memory of Ben’s death. Gut-wrenching sobs, claw marks on otherwise pristine wooden floors.Vanya. Holding a violin. Holding her bow up, prepared to play the most beautiful songs. And in the moment her bow draws across delicate strings, the image warps. Her bow becomes a razor and her violin, her wrist. Klaus watches her bleed out, silently. Her brown eyes begging Klaus for help and the moment he kneels to comfort her, the scenery changes.His siblings are giants around him. Growing taller, bigger, louder every second. Laughing, joking, smiling. The scene is almost comforting.Until he hears them.“You’re nothing.”“Just little junkie Klaus.”“No, no. It’s number four.”“Number four? Like he’s actually more useful than anyone.”“A no good junkie scared of his powers.”His siblings sneer and laugh as he cries. Claws at his face until blood is running down his chest. Until his face is more skull than skin. He claws at his ears as his siblings laugh louder, until all he can hear is hate.Klaus wakes with a jolt.He washes down a handful of miscellaneous pills with a shot of vodka.When he passes out, there are no nightmares.